“I’m still figuring that out.” His voice is flat. Honest, maybe. “But, for right now, relax. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Relax? As if. I can’t remember the last time I felt relaxed, even in sleep.
Something crosses Mr. O’Rourke’s face. Like he knows what I’m thinking.
“I won’t touch you,” he says. Slower this time. “You have my word.”
I nod, but words don’t mean anything. Everyone lies.
“The door locks from the inside if you want.” He gestures to the bolt.
He leaves. The door clicks shut behind him.
I stand in the center of the room and count to one hundred as my heartbeat hammers against my ribs.
I check out the bathroom. Marble counters. A tub big enough to lie down in. A shower with a glass door. Thick towels folded on a rack. Bottles of shampoo and soap that look expensive. A toothbrush still in packaging.
When the mirror catches me, I flinch.
I look exactly like what I am. Bruised, disillusioned, and exhausted by life at nineteen.
I reached for the bedroom door and turned the knob, surprised when it opens.
He didn’t lock me in.
I close it again and lock it from the inside, testing it once. Twice. Three times.
The shower calls to me. I haven’t had hot water in weeks. Not since the electric bill was shut off for non-payment.
I lock the bathroom door, strip off my clothes, and turn the water on hot.
Steam fills the space. I step under the spray. It hits my face, my shoulders. I use the shampoo even though I shouldn’t waste it, and wash my hair three times. Scrub my skin until it hurts.
And then the torrent of tears starts.
I cry for my mother, who died when I was seven. For the girl I used to be before Dad’s drinking, before the beatings, before I learned to disappear. I cry for the fact that being sold to a mobster doesn’t even feel that bad. Yet.
When I finally get out, I wrap myself in a towel softer than anyblanket I’ve ever owned.
The bed is too fluffy. Too big. Too clean.
I pull the comforter back. Pristine white sheets stretch across the mattress. I sit on the edge. The mattress doesn’t squeak or sag.
I feel odd here. Like I can’t sleep here. Or shouldn’t. This bed is for people who belong in places like this.
There are footsteps in the hallway.
My body goes rigid. The footsteps stop right outside my door.
I shrink, cower into myself to make myself smaller.
Don’t come in. Please, don’t come in.
The door handle doesn’t turn.
Seconds crawl past. The footsteps retreat.
I exhale. My lungs burn. He kept his word.
